Broken and Beautiful
by PrettiestWarrior
Summary: 12 weeks, in a military-style program, with 6 other delinquents, who are just like me. How hard can it be? Apparently not easy. Pelted with paintballs, covered with bruises and forced to work together Clary, the feisty, untouchable redhead quickly becomes the only thing keeping Jace sane. Will they become each other's biggest strengths? Or will they crash and burn? AH ;)
1. Chapter 1: My Name's Clary

**AN: Hey, I've had this idea going around in my head for a couple of months now so, since it's the holidays, I thought I'd try it out and here it is! I'm open to all reviews and criticism so please don't be shy! I hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own TMI or its characters. I just drive them crazy ;)**

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Twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks in Juvie.

Twelve weeks in Juvie, in The Institute.

Twelve weeks in Juvie, in The Institute, with 6 other delinquents.

Twelve weeks in Juvie, in The Institute, with 6 other delinquents, who are just like me.

How hard can it be?

All I've got to deal with is orange jumpsuits and crappy canteen food. Easy just easy, I think as I pack, my life into two suitcases. Do you know how difficult it is to pack your whole life into two suitcases? Yeah it's easy just easy.

In go sketchpads, pencils, paints in tubes, paints in cans, spray paint, paintbrushes, rollers, charcoal and all my other much needed art supplies. With one suitcase full, I begin with my clothes dumping practically everything in, skinny jeans, tee-shirts, pyjamas, shoes and the minimal makeup and jewellery I own. Who knows, maybe they'll let us wear our own clothes. I add in books and certain other things I convince myself I'll need. Before stuffing in every last morsel of art supplies I can fit. Finally having zipped up my suitcases, which I painstakingly painted to make it look like it was raining in a soft yet bright green, I collect them up and walk out of my room.

Having shut my door, closing a door on my life before as well, I look up and see Jon doing the same. A suitcase in each hand with the door shut behind him, he looks just as he did months ago, yet so much has changed. His white-blond hair, his startling green eyes, even his jaw and nose, they're all the same. He's still wearing the usual black t-shirt, black jeans and black combat boots and yet he's changed, it's in his eyes. The grim expression from before changes to a grin when he catches sight of me, he's not nearly as put together as he thinks he is.

"Hey sis," he sings out.

"Hi Jon," I say tiredly.

"Come on, turn that frown upside down, princess."

"I'm not really in the mood, Jon"

"Oh no, you are not leaving like this." However, before he manages to do whatever he planned, we both smell them.

Pancakes, literally, the bread and butter of our family.

And then we're shoving and pushing each other as we fight to be the first to reach the kitchen first, with our suitcases and bodies intact.

"MOVE, Clary!" Jon shouts as he uses a particular manoeuvre of using his suitcases to trip up my ankles and shove past me.

"Hey, no fair, that's cheating, we banned that rule." I yell after him as I wait for the perfect time.

"Uh uh, that rule was banned the time before and that was a one-time only ban. Sooo we're back to you can't cheat when there are no rules" I have no idea how he managed to pant that out while running with two bags that guessing from the thumping on the stairs are jam-packed but he did somehow.

And then my chance opens up we're moving down the second flight of stairs and Jonathan is forced to shift to the side to right the bag in his right hand, leaving a space open on his left. The banister. I take it with a split second thought. I hoist my bags in front of me, giving Jonathan a slight push into the wall as I leap onto the banister, sliding sideways with my bags pointing towards Jonathan. I poke out my tongue as I slide past him, hearing him yell as he gets back up, "You cheater, that move is not fair."

"Oh?" I say with as much fake sympathy as I can manage.

"Yeah, just because you're shorter and lighter than me, does not mean you get to use the banister."

"So, like you don't use your height and, unfortunately for me, rather large muscles?"

"Exactly." He pants out as he fights to catch up with me. "Wait what?"

"Either way," I reply over my shoulder, "you can't cheat when there are no rules, right?" And the smell of victory is in the air that is until I feel a tug on my foot and I'm crashing towards the ground. Yet as Jonathan moves past me I swipe his feet out from under him and then he's the one crashing down right next to me. With both of us grunting on the ground, neither able to gain the upper hand and stand up I drop my bags hoping for the weight loss to help me, however, Jonathan seems to be thinking the same way, for his bags are released seconds after mine.

It's not until the sound of the bags crashing down the stairs towards us, that we momentarily cease our worm crawling, the shoving of the other while on our elbows as we both try to be the first through the narrow space. It's as if it's in slow motion as we turn our heads to find Valentine Morgenstern whooping as he rides down the stairs with a foot on one of our bags each, white-blond hair flapping, and onyx eyes sparkling. I turn to face Jonathan, well as much as I can without giving up my ground, and give him a quick menacing look, only to find him doing the same. "It seems that we have come to the same conclusion, brother dear." I whisper-shout before I shove him as hard as I can, only to find him shoving me back and I can tell you no matter how much I tease him about being fat those muscles definitely help him. But, I am not going to experience that pain again. Yes, Jonathan and I have been in a similar situation before, actually many many times before.

For if you think Jon and I are pancake fanatics Valentine, our father, is much much worse. So much as look at his pancake the wrong way and you can expect to be grounded for a week. I learnt that the hard way.

Before either of us manage to stand up, without the other pulling us back to the ground, we hear, "Watch out, suckers, those pancakes are mine." And it's bad when Valentine joins the war, for you know that you have no hope, and it's at this point that I know that Jonathan and I have both realised that we are going to go down, again.

I was right as unfortunately for us both, not a split second later we ended up with a face full of carpet and a foot in each of our backs, courtesy of Valentine Morgenstern, yet due to us all being used to this game Jonathan and I automatically reached out to pull him down with us.

Only to realise just how perfectly he planned this.

For at that exact point in time the bags come smashing into us. And let me tell you that having Valentine lifting himself off your back isn't exactly lightweight fun but having four 25kg bags land practically on top of you is a lot worse. And yet that weight also seems to bring back why I need those bags and why they are part of the war anyway. And so with our backs in agony we watch, from the floor as Valentine lightly jumps over us and skips down the hallway, towards the pancakes. The pancakes which should have been mine, groaning Jonathan and I begin to pull ourselves up, pausing again when we hear Valentine's voice ring out again, "Mm mm these pancakes are super good, it's a pity Jonathan and Clarissa couldn't make it to the kitchen. Don't you think Jocelyn?" I don't hear her reply as his words instigate my reaction immediately. A quick push to Jonathan and he's sprawling on the floor as my nose is flooded with the scent of pancakes and my feet thud quickly down the hallway.

Yet somehow, as I'm passing through the final doorway into the kitchen, there's a last shove from Jonathan causing us both to come skidding into the kitchen at the same time. After Jonathan's immature squabbling over who gets the most pancakes as to who arrived first into the kitchen, which was so me, is cut off as I enjoy the delicate delicacy that is a pancake. I zone out of the talking happening around me until I hear Valentine addressing Jonathan.

"… If you bring any disgrace to the Morgenstern hair, as the only child of mine to carry on our Switzerland heritage in looks," he continues throwing me a scathing look, just because mum has red hair, I get all the blame for carrying it on. "I mean your hair, Jonathan, the pure white-blond hair." Cue the rant. "This hair has been in our hair for generations and it has been in our family for generations, if you so much as come back with one hair on that head of yours changed, if you change the colour or shave it off, so help me I will send you to Juvie myself." I snigger at this little exchange between father and son as it's always priceless.

"Dad I know, ok, I've only heard that lecture for the better part of every day of my life."

"Quite, right son, now Clarissa this delinquency of yours," oh great and now Jonathan's the one sniggering. "How could you drag Jonathan down with you?"

"Yes, Clarissa how could you drag me down with you? All I was trying to do was take the brunt of the fall for you." Jonathan says all too innocently. Unbelievable. Jonathan did just as much as I did 'taking the brunt of the fall for you' my ass. Who does he think he is, Mother Teresa?

"Yes, yes you see." Valentine agrees. And yet his confidence wavers when mum narrows her eyes at him.

After The Look, and trust me that look is scarrryyy, I mean people have probably turned over in their grave because of it. The eyes narrow, as the eyebrows are drawn in; the red hair turns from beautiful and flowing to electric and on fire. Luckily dad looks away before too long, giving mum the opportunity to speak as she seems to be unable to while giving The Look. "Valentine, it is equally Jonathan's fault as it is Clarissa's that is why they are both going."

"Sure, sure," he grumbles back.

"Now, we have already been over this many times, Valentine, and given that this is their last breakfast at this table for twelve weeks we are not discussing their delinquency anymore. Understood?" With a sullen nod from dad, mum cleans that topic off the bench.

As dad and mum begin to discuss boring work stuff, and I'm tuning out, again as my pancakes grown increasingly more and more interesting, I feel a poke to my shoulder. "I'm kind of eating pancakes here." I say without looking up.

"Oh right I forgot, for you to eat pancakes you need to apply all of your brain power to life your fork to your mouth and back to the plate."

"Hey, I'm using a knife as well." I fire back, enjoying the banter. Pancakes absorb my attention until I feel another slightly harder poke. "What?" I snap, before finally turning to see Jonathan with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"We're gone for twelve weeks, right?"

"Yes, Jonathan we've only told you that a million times." I reply with an eye roll, talking especially slowly as maybe this time that minor detail will stick in his pea-sized brain.

"Shush, keep it down, I've got a plan." Suddenly I'm all ears as now I know that breakfast is going to get a hell of a lot more interesting as Jonathan doesn't muck around with his 'plans'.

"I'm listening."

"Alright what's the one thing at this table that will cause Valentine's shit to hit the fan?" I give him a blank stare. "Come on, the thing that can get us grounded for months…" he continues watching my face intently so as not to miss the slow recognition, as to what he's referring to, form on my face. "Ok, let's put it together now," he continues, like I'm three and sometimes I honestly think I am, three that is, "We're away for twelve weeks, meaning that he can't ground us until Christmas, so I say rather than just 'looking' at his pancakes, in that way," his voice drops lower now, as his eyebrows wiggle up and down. "I think that we should finish ours off," which when I look down to our plates I realise is roughly one pancake each, "and then we strike, you distract him talk about some art project… ooh even better make it of the Switzerland flag and then I'll grab the pancakes, and chuck half to you. Finally we stuff our faces for a brief few seconds so he can really see what we're doing and then we run, ok? Ok, enact my brilliant plan in five." See this is why I love my brother, we'll have one last 'fun' family feud before heading out in… shit we have only ten minutes.

"Jon" He keeps on eating, ignoring me. Garr. "Jon." I repeat poking him this time.

"Yes, dear sister, if you're wishing to thank me, for existing in this world, even better for existing and gracing you with the pleasure of calling yourself my sister, please refrain from poking quite so hard." I swear my expression turned murderous after he said that.

Two words that's all he gets, "10 minutes."

"Ahh shit" he exclaims. Before picking his pancake up and slamming it into his mouth, as I did seconds before. "Begin enactment of plan, now." He somehow manages to spit that out around his stuffed cheeks.

I turn to mum and dad finding them completely out of it as mum explains about some new artwork or maybe dad's talking about some new contract at his work. Let's hope it was art.

"Dad, in art we have to do a project on a country of our free choice. I decided to do Switzerland as although I do not have the Switzerland looks I wanted to show how much Switzerland means to me at heart," I crap on. Boy am I lucky that dad has somehow forgotten where Jon and I are going, today.

"Yes, yes very wise Clarissa if only Jonathan had your dedication to showing how important Switzerland is to our family." I watch out of my eye as Jonathan begins to move, only to be forced to stop as dad turns to him as he speaks. I've got to distract him.

"Um, so I was wondering if you could help me to gain a better understanding of what is the heart of Switzerland. As I'm planning on doing the Switzerland flag with the cross filled with things that make Switzerland what it is." This is such bullshit how he believes this I don't know. Luckily, saying this crap causes dad to turn his attention back to me.

"Clarissa, dear you should know, but I think you should draw the rich chocolates and cheeses, the lakes and the mount– AHHH!" Jonathan had struck, in a blur, the pancakes were gone, snatched off Valentine's plate in a move like lightning, and then they were sailing through the air, I stretch my hand up quickly, snatching my half out of the air. I stand up and Jon and I simultaneously stuff his pancakes into our faces. The delicious taste of fluffy pancakes, mmhhmmm, they are amazing. I open my eyes after the last crumb of succulent pancakes have crawled down my throat, to see dad standing up with shock, before we both put up the rude fingers, in a sort of sibling telekinesis, and proceed to stuff more pancakes into our mouths. Finally, the look we were waiting for forms on his face. Rage.

Jonathan grumbles out, "Run!" And I sprint, with Jonathan right on my heels and given the murderous noises behind me dad must be right on his. I turn to the stairs thinking that we might be able to tire him out.

"Jocelyn," he hollers as we all sprint, "they took my pancakes and then ate them in front of me." To all of our surprise we hear mum laughing, and a weird sort of shuttering sound. The stuffing of pancakes, the laughing and shuttering sound from below, the hollers of Valentine, the yells from Jon to hurry up, and finally the pants wracking my body, all combine and I realise I'm happy. It's bubbling up inside me and I begin to laugh too, with difficulty, Jon starts then and it becomes too much. We collapse on the floor, writhing around even dad joins us after a few scathing looks.

Ding Dong. The doorbell. That means ten minutes is up; it's time for Jon and me to go. At least it wasn't wasted. Jon and I, suddenly solemn, turn back and and begin to trudge downstairs, as we pass dad we each get a clip to the head, causing us to duck our heads as we pass him.

"That's for eating **my** pancakes." He says although his face looks as glum as we feel.

I reach the bottom of the last flight of stairs, picking up my raining green suitcases. I pass Jon, walking to the door to find mum speaking to two Clave officials, the current party in government.

"Clarissa and Jonathan Morgenstern?"

"Yes, that's me but it's Cla–" A nudge from Jon cuts me off. I didn't realise saying my preferred name, was too much to ask for, I snap to the Jonathan in my head.

"Yes, that's us." Jon says finishing my sentence, bringing me back to reality.

"Please, say your goodbyes and then we'll be off."

I turn around finding Jon beside me with mum and dad across from us. Jon steps forwards first, squaring his shoulders before, turning and pulling mum in towards him. She crumples, holding him tightly as he towers over her. I watch as she sniffles saying, "Take care of yourself okay? And Clary she acts big and tough but she needs you."

"I know, mum, okay. I'll be there for her."

"I love you."

"I love you too," Then Jon pulls back, helping mum up before wiping her tears, it's only then that I notice that I've let go of my bags and that I'm pushing past mum and Jon to reach my dad. And as he envelops me in his warm arms bringing me straight into his chest, I become daddy's little girl again. The girl who would run to her dad for anything and everything, knowing that he could fix it with a swish of his fingers, whether it was bandaging my knee or wiping my tears. Even Before that was true. Before, I became a delinquent. And yes, that's me, it's who I am and what I am, saying I didn't mean to do such a thing or coming up with an explanation as to why I did the crime or even an excuse doesn't change a thing. None of those things change the fact that I committed a felony. Me. I did it, a felony.

That's what my mind has been reduced to, a mess of squiggly thoughts with no point to their being and no end to their existence and yet they are somehow keeping me sane. But I know while dad holds me that despite my so called delinquency and my mess of a mind I am still my father's daughter. I know that if I really need him I can come running to him just as I did when I was a little girl and he would try and help me.

"I love you, dad." I whisper into his chest.

He holds me at arm's length then. "I love you too, honey, now come on, go out there and show everyone just how badass the Morgenstern children and their father are." I crack a grin and look over at mum who's raised an eyebrow at dad's comment. Causing him to hastily add to it, "Now, your mum she's in a whole other category, and luckily for you you've got a lot of that category in you too. I mean, look at you." I grin again even as I hold in the tears. I'm going to do as dad says I'm going to bring on the Morgenstern badassery.

With our goodbyes said. Jon and I follow the officials, together, united in our Morgenstern badassery, and our suitcases.

-o-O-o-

The trip there passes quickly despite our lack of knowledge as to where there is. I suppose it was the drugs they injected us with. Everything became sort of hazy and loopy, like when you're looking at one of those funhouse mirrors, or a kaleidoscope, it was the same, but warped. It could've been minutes or hours later, that was how effectively we were blinded. But as I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the funk and gunk from my eyes, I realised from the looks of it we'd arrived. At least that's what I gathered given the 10 or so other young people surrounding me, and Jon.

"You all know why you're here." I jump, at the booming voice, swivelling to face the speaker, even as I feel Jon's body wracking with laughter. Before I could shove him to shut up the pain in the ass the dark eyed, dark haired woman started speaking again, "You were given an ultimatum: join this program and have your criminal record stricken or suffer the normal consequences associated with the crimes committed. It is no surprise what the majority of you chose," she chuckled. Like we had much of a choice, 'despite the lack of knowledge, you possessed, as to what the program entitles." And she's off again.

I zone out, thinking about how much access I'll have to my painting materials and my clothes when I just about drop dead when she drones this out, "You all have certain addictions." What the hell! I think I would know if I had an addiction, I mouth off to her in my mind. "And the Clave believes these addictions are the reason as to why you committed your crimes and if we can cure you of these addictions we believe that the chance of further crime will decrease immensely." What a load of horse shite. She's really on a roll now. I look around at everyone else and see they are wearing much the same expression as I am. Dumbstruck. So I guess I'm not the only one who had absolutely no idea of our 'addictions'.

I vaguely hear the rest of what she says, "Militant like training… 6 weeks with access to addiction… 6 weeks without addiction." And an all-round brilliant time! She leaves not long after, something about leaving us to get settled in. Settled in, my ass.

"Huh?" I mumble, once I realise Jon asked me a question.

"I said, did you listen to any of that?" Jon asks.

"Parts of it." I grumble back.

I stand back, waiting for everyone else to have collected their bags before I go to collect mine, only to find Jon has already hoisted them out and is walking to collect our room keys. "Stupid… annoying… egotistical butthead." I mumble.

"Did you just call me a butthead?" A surprisingly lilting voice asks. I look up shocked, that definitely isn't Jon. I look him up and down quickly: messy golden hair, annoyingly tall stature, twinkling gold eyes … nope definitely not Jon. "I don't think I've been called a butthead since 9th grade."

"Then I think it's about time you were." I snap. Funnily enough rather than getting mad or storming off he chuckles. I mean he chuckles. Really? I shove past him, a frown pulling my eyebrows down, quickly. God, what a jerk. I mean am I really so short that I'm not even intimidating.

He flips over me. I mean come on, how is that fair. One minute I was shoving past him, towards Jonathan. The next, gold and black were blending together as he flipped right over me, I mean right over me, to stand in my path. And if I wasn't so mad, right now, I would even admit just how sexy that was. "Wait up," he says, as if he didn't just flip over me. "I didn't catch your name." He smiles charmingly as if he completely expects me to go weak at the knees.

I shove past him again. Only to have him flip over me, again. "You know, you're kind of sexy when you're mad." My eyes roll automatically. I shove past him one more time, maybe he'll get the message this time. And he flips. Again.

"That is getting so old." I finally say. A grin cracks across his face when I finally talk and I must say he really is gorgeous.

"Well, considering you won't even give me the time of day, I don't have many options." He replies, I can't help it I duck my head and grin.

"You could stop hitting on me entirely." I suggest, hoping I wasn't too forward.

"Now where's the fun in that?

I roll my eyes again, grinning as I shove past him one last time. Calling over my shoulder, "My name's Clary."

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**AN: Thanks for checking out my story. So, what did you all think? If you have time, please leave me a review so I know whether this idea is worth continuing.**

**Until next time, chickies,**

**Xoxo LondonRain324**


	2. Chapter 2: Fractured

**IMPORTANT AN: I reuploaded this chapter as my little brother somehow got ahold of my computer and deleted it. How? I have no clue. But I have changed the middle part of the chapter which is necessary to read so please read that section. I should update again in the next two weeks.**

**Also ICanExplain asked me to say that she is an unofficial beta, she is just yet to write anything, so yeah. Check her out.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own TMI or its characters. I just put them in awkward situations and laugh in an evil fashion.**

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Chapter 2 – Fractured

Walking away from golden guy, I really begin to appreciate the luxury that we will be living in. It is decadent. Large windows, floor length curtains, white walls, clean furniture. The building looks old with its high ceilings and crown mouldings, large chandeliers and old facilities. It's a mix of the old and the new, the change from one century to another. And somehow it works. Jon's watching me closely as I continue admiring the Institute on the way to him.

"Who was that guy?" He inquires.

"Nobody." I say, dismissing him.

"That didn't look like nobody. Did you see those flips he was doing?" He replies, incredulously.

"Yes I did." I snap, snatching my suitcases from him completely intending to move on.

"Nuh uh, you don't want to talk about him, so what did he say?" Why he's pushing me now I don't know, I swear it's like he wants to annoy me today or something. I mean what ever happened to sibling intuition?

"Nothing, ok?" I roll my eyes. But then my eye catches on something shimmering. And no it's not gold guy, man I don't even know his name, and I'm already fantasising about the annoying jerk.

"SIMON!" I scream. Dropping my bags again. Jonathan groans, they must have landed on his toes, whoops. I sprint towards him leaping into his arms when I'm close enough.

"Oomph." He groans out.

All I can think is I can't believe you're here! I mean how are you here? I haven't seen you in ages! How have you been? I'm sure he's deaf by the time I finish, even though I've said none of this out loud. But I suppose he can see it all, in my face because he responds:

"Woah woah slow down," he says, fixing his glasses, "We can talk later, you've made kind of a scene, you know, of us." He winks, grinning as I blush at his implication. That's just ew.

"I could never… we would never…ew… as if we…" I stutter out, blushing profusely.

"Relax, Clare, I was kidding. But seriously we'll talk later, we really have made a scene."

"Ok." I say, turning around to find Jonathan. And he's right there, passing both our suitcases to me. I suppose I owe him. Before he embraces Simon in that weird bro-hug thing, boy's do.

"Nice to see you, ratboy." I hear him mutter, to which Simon just laughs, used to it by now.

"Come on, slow coaches, let's go find our rooms." And I promptly march off to collect our room keys. I hear a slight scuffle behind me, but decided to ignore it. It's only seconds later that I'm huffing and puffing to Jon, "Jon, someone's taken them…*pant* I knew this place would have bad people, *huff* like really really bad people. *puff* I mean who would be that mean as to take our keys?" I finally look up having caught my breath, to find Simon and Jonathan struggling to keep straight faces, only to burst out laughing. "What, what?" I stammer, realising I've clearly missed something.

But they're practically rolling around on the floor, so all Jon manages to do is jangle the keys in my face. I punch him, hard.

-o-O-o-

Having, already parted with Jon and Simon to find my room, with it of course having to be up more flights of stairs, I finally reach my room. I think that we're organised according to our crimes or maybe it's our 'addictions'. I roll my eyes at this. Or maybe according to our fitness levels? At least that would explain the miles of stairs I have.

Now that I think about it that probably wouldn't be below the Clave.

Slamming into my room, I drop the suitcases immediately. Crashing into the heavenly soft quilt they luckily provide, burying my head beneath the pillow. Only after I enter bliss and get over my respiratory problem do I finally look up and I am just annoyed. It's not that my room isn't stunning with the antique furniture, the large head and foot-boards, billowing curtains, comfy to-die-for chairs it's just that it's missing that oomph. The walls are white like downstairs and all I want to do is dig through my suitcases and proceed to splatter the walls of paint.

A few times I try to unpack my other stuff, as we are supposed to be doing, but the action gets caught somewhere between my brains and my hands. Finally I give up and take out my invisible brushes and just start painting in my head. The dark-haired guy pops into my mind, the way he looked as if he was trying to fold in on himself to try and disappear or just completely rise off into the air and float away and yet he was grounded. Was it the rock he kept fiddling with? Or was it the allure of having people surrounding him? As the world begins to fill with colours and stokes, that's when it occurs to me that maybe the rocks are weighing him down so he doesn't rise into the air…

I walk and walk through the gray ashy dusk and the forest starts to fall asleep: The trees lie down side by side, the creek halts, the plants sink back into the earth, the animals switch places with their shadows, and then, so do we.

I paint the ceiling, I paint the walls, I paint the furniture, I paint the windows, I paint the world outside, I paint the world around me. I rebuild the world around me. The colours fly out, dancing around me and picking up my feet and carrying me off with them. But I am never painting.

-o-O-o-

I hit the ground. Groaning. You could say that I heard the dinner bell, that's for sure. It's like a death bell tolling out death sentences. Rubbing my head and back I get up grumbling about stupid military school and the likes. I practically tumble down all the stairs, smashing into Jonathan just as I reach the bottom.

"Where have you been?" He practically growls.

"Sssshhhhh," I mumble, "I've got a headache and I want to go back to sleep."

He glares at me then, you would think I'd told him to shove it where it hurts rather than just telling him to be quiet. "You do realise you missed lunch."

"No wonder I'm so hungry."

"No wonder you're so hungry?" He mutters under his breath. "And to think I was worried you'd cracked your head and died."

"I'm not that stupid." I glare back at him. He's really getting under my skin now. I mean honestly. He rolls his eyes at my glare. Walking ahead of me into what I think is the dining room and clearly expecting me to follow. I stick my tongue out at him, contemplating giving him the bird before deciding there's no point if he won't see it. I'll just stick it to him later.

Entering the room, I stop thinking my murderous thoughts. I mean why think about murder when I can make him squirm? I smash into a table.

"Ow, my toe." I hiss, hopping up and down as I hold my foot up. Groaning, I gently place my foot back on the floor as I move to a seat next to Jonathan and the only other girl here. I slump into my chair, only raising my eyes to admire the monumentous amounts of food laid out in front of us. It's like the Harry Potter banquets. Treacle tart, butterbeers, heaven. Not that I'm a fan or anything.

But it doesn't quite taste how it's supposed it's almost like eating ash and pretending it's the food you want most in the world.

Something pushed into my shoulder, my hand waved as I shovelled another mouthful of food into my already full mouth. "Uh uh... I'm busy" I grumbled out, honestly Jon should know, neither he nor I like being talked to when we are clearly focusing on eating.

"Hi," Oh oh, I didn't know Jonathan was a girl. Why didn't he tell me? My eyes flick up when I realise that it's 'it' girl, shit, I just called her that. My eyes flick up, deer in the headlight look here I come. My jaw drops. Definitely an 'it' girl, how is it fair that she looks like the next Miss Universe and I can't even put my hair up. She's beautiful - in a totally non sexual way, long hair nearly the precise colour of black ink, dark brown-gold flecked eyes, pale skin, full lips and a figure that is tall, slender and curvy. My jaw drops even further if that's possible.

"Way to make an impression."

"Huh?" She says.

I must have said that out loud, well I've already stuffed it, now.

"Um…Hi," I stuttered out.

"Hi, gorgeous, I'm Jonathan," Oh brilliant, my idiotic brother has joined in.

"Hi I'm out of your–"She breaks off and I turn to look at her, I mean what the hell could've stopped her from finishing that brilliant let down to Jon.

"Izzy." Jonathan stammers out.

"Jon." Well, hi, Izzy nice to meet you is what I would normally say but she just stammered and that's my forte.

"Clary." I join in, saying my own name.

"Shut up, Clary." Jon exclaims, but the fire is not in it. The two of them can't seem to take their eyes off of each other as if they're worried the other is going to up and disappear any minute now. How do they know each other again?

I watch, enamoured as Jon offers Isabelle his hand and they step out of the dining hall together.

"Uh," I grunt. I'll just torture it out of him later.

The paintbrushes are out again, I watch us all, watching them, watching how Jon and Isabelle are beautiful but they're tortured. Their eyes aren't whole. I suppose none of us are anymore. I finally take in the rest of the occupants of our table, I realise now that this supposed happiness I felt around me was only a figment of my imagination. Jonathan's breaking and I don't know why. Dark-haired guy is fading away, curling in on himself so no one notices him. Golden guy sits there picking at his food, unaware of the pain filling the air around him, so consumed in his own agony. And then there's me completely and utterly artistically broke. It's the eyes that give us away, no matter the smiles, the beauty, the makeup, the masks all we are made of is paper facades ready to be ripped to pieces from the slightest pressure.

We're all broken, broken and beautiful.

"Hello, again, I assume you have all settled in nicely." Miss uptight clave official says. Brilliant, she's back.

"Actually, no I haven't, I'm in the worst kind of hell." I hear golden guy mutter.

"Excuse me, Mr Herondale, would you mind repeating, what you just said?" I suck in a breath watching the way the official's face turns triumphant while golden guy's muscle simply tenses as he clenches his jaw. "I thought not."

"Well…" he drawls, "If you really want to know… I said, 'Roses are red violets are blue, God made me sexy, what the hell happened to you?'" His smirk spreads as slowly as he drawled it out watching as she struggles not to show how it affected her. Her face turns redder and redder, her eye's bulge, her neck shrinks, her lips crack, and she begins to fracture. She explodes, her fractures coat the room, blood, skin–

"Mr Herondale, this is your first and only warning, do not talk back to me or interrupt me, again, or our very own form of hell will rain down on you."

"Try me, I'm already in the worst kind of hell."

"Are you stupid, or something?"

"Well I would agree with you in saying that I am, but then we'd both be wrong." There's a manic glint in his eyes now, as he rises her higher and higher.

"Detention tomorrow at 5."

"Sorry I'm not free at that time but thanks for the offer." The room is being destroyed in a chaotic war, the knives fight the forks, the tablecloths uproot all the dishes, the table legs splinter and break, the chair's walk away from the table, the glasses shatter, thin spider webs dance over the glass until they pierce the table. Sunlight. Golden light shines across the room, revealing the chaotic mess. The knives link arms with the forks again, the tablecloths upright themselves, the table legs walk back to the table, the chairs become friends again, the glasses are spun back together like lace.

I'm moving before I even notice it. I'm up, walking to leave the room. I turn back when I reach the door, my hand pressed against the warm, solid wood to take in the mess behind me.

Simon mouths to me, "Are you okay?" Strange how he can still read me like an open book even though I haven't seen him in years. He still looks the same with the shirt: Made in Brooklyn and square framed glasses but I know that he's not the same. I'm not the same. Jon, by big brother who used to hold be when there was a thunderstorm, isn't the same. And I can bet that no one else here is the same, that all of us have been changed by what we did. I wonder if he's still with Eric and the band. What was their last name again? Burnt toast? Or was it Sexy Marshmallows? I don't even know my best friend anymore.

"Fine." I mouth back instantaneously. It's become a habit, I suppose. But am I okay? Does it count as being okay if i laugh and jump and scream and hurt? Am I okay if all I wear is black and I talk more in my head than I do out loud? Am I okay if I'm on a boycott? Am I okay if I am stuck in The Institute? Am I fine if I am numb to the world? Am I okay if I've lost my wisp?

It was usually when dad was away in the city during the week for work, when Mum has her 'black' days as Dad called them. It isn't depression. Dad says it is when her art can't be locked up anymore and that all she can do is paint until it is all gone. 'It's like one of the players on your video games, they regain health until they lose it all and it repeats.' he would say.

She would disappear into her art studio for days, only drinking coffee and falling asleep on the couch in her studio. Jon and I were never allowed in there, but we would always creep in, watching out for the creaky floorboard. We'd crouch around the side of the doorway, peeking in on Mum's whirlwind. Paint would fly around the room like leaping ballerina's, soaring and pirouetting as mum turned out artwork after artwork.

Whenever we asked her about it she would simply smile and say, "You'll understand one day, both of you have the wisp in you." But one day I crept in there, alone, to witness her very own tornado. She was just sitting there though, staring at her pad that was turned away from me, staring at it with agony written all over her face. I was so shocked that I stepped back to leave the room only to hit the creaky floorboard. I remember watching how she looked up so slowly, as if only just breaking out of her trance. A ghost of a smile flickered across her face as she saw me and very gently beckoned me forward. I get it now, that day, it wasn't her wisp drawing her to her art but her pain.

I remember walking to mum leaning forward to see what she had painted that was causing her so much pain. And the minute I saw it, I was frozen, stuck, unable to tear my eyes away from what she had painted.

"Mum... it's... Who is that?" I had asked.

"No one." She'd replied, and I could tell from those two words that no matter how hard I pressed she wouldn't tell me who this gorgeous guy was to her. But I couldn't help but try.

"Really, who is he?" I pressed.

"Just someone I made up," She responded with fire, she was more like herself once I started talking, more alive really and less like a person who was just going through the motions, consumed by her mind.

"Nah-uh. He's real. I can tell you're lying."

"I'm not, Clary. I swear." I could tell even then she didn't want to tell me and that in that brief instance she had regained her fire and lost it, her voice was full of a tiredness that she didn't want to share. I came around to mum's side, leaning in to get my fill of her painting.

"I wish he was real," I murmured, more to myself than mum. "He's so cool-looking. He's so . . . I don't know . . . There's something . . ." I could feel mum's eyes on me, almost protective of this guy. "Can I have it?" I blurted out, ripping the bandaid off. I knew what she was going to say before the words were even completely out of my mouth. Ever since we were little Jon, mum and I were in a battle for world domination. Apparently having a wisp meant we couldn't share the world we had to battle it out. I know it now but I didn't then, without at least part of the world you don't work. It's like being a machine that is trying to work only it is missing a piece.

"For the sun, stars, oceans, and all the trees, I'll consider it," she responded, it seems she knew I'd never agree. She'd been trying to buy the sun and the trees off me for ages but I always thought it was just a game but it wasn't a game, not at all. I could see her thoughts swimming across her face, see how she knew that universe domination was within her grasp for the first time.

"Are you kidding?" I said, standing straight. "That leaves me only the flowers, mum." I could see her resolve settling in, not happy to not have domination but happy to settle for keeping this guy locked away in her studio. I could see her brain ticking, thinking, that I'd never do it. It's settled, but it isn't. I reached over and propped up the pad, waiting for some kind of hint from the painting, that what I was about to do wasn't completely stupid.

"Okay," I murmur. Saying louder, "Trees, stars, oceans. Fine."

"And the sun, Clary." She reminds me, but I know that even universe domination wouldn't satisfy her, not compared to the loss of this artwork.

"Oh, all right," I snapped, knowing I was totally surprising her. "I'll give you the sun."

"I practically have everything now!" She said, surprise lightening her features. Jumping up with her hands raised, "You're crazy!"

"But I have him." I said oblivious to her, carefully ripping the gorgeous guy out of her sketchbook and carrying him out of the room. I was lost in my own world.

Most people would think that the way mum acted wasn't 'motherly' and I supposed it wasn't but pain twists people.

-o-O-o-

I don't even know what being fine is anymore, let alone how to be fine.

I push against the door, shutting it behind me, as I sink down, leaning against it, falling to the only place where I am still held up without myself. I wait. I wait for someone to realise that I'm not fine. I wait for someone to realise that, that beautifully complex boy inside who took the time to learn my name isn't fine either. I wait for someone to realise that none of us are fine and that The Institute isn't going to change that. I wait for someone to realise that somewhere on my way to fine I lost the path, I lost the light, I lost the why, the how, the where. And now I'm not fine. I'm all messed up.

I've drifted back to my room and collapsed I'll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.

-o-O-o-

The bell tolls. I stumble downstairs in a drear. I can't stand it, I can't stand this heaviness, this heaviness in the air. I could scream. My feet begin to thud, thudding down the stairs. I shove the front doors open. To hell with the repercussions. I run. I run like I have never run before. I let it all drip away. The fog thickens around me, clouding my vision, tripping me up. It's the fog of me, the fog I'm releasing. My toes sink in the grass, squelching and sinking. I'm light as air now. It's like I'm painting, but not painting in my head, I'm painting on canvas. I'm building sculptures. I'm shaping sand.

By the time, I've let it all out, I'm damp through and through and shivering all over. My hairs standing up on edge as I shake with goosebumps. I notice a small church at the edge of the road I have somehow broken into sometime during my sprint. A perfect place to dry off, warm up, and strategize about how I'm going to survive 12 weeks in this place. I pull the thick brass ring to open the door. A blast of warmth and light embraces me the moment I step in.

Mum's a church-hopper, always dragging Jon and me with her, except never when a service is going on. She says she just likes to sit in holy spaces, that grandma did too, I suppose it's how she feels close to her. I'm one too now, it seems.

This one is a beautiful boat-like room of dark wood and bright stained-glass panels of, it looks like, yup, the angel Lucifer, falling, falling, falling. Like me, I sigh.

In every set of siblings, there is one angel, one devil.

God must have made a mistake this time. I take a seat in the second row. While rubbing my arms furiously to warm up, I think about what I'm going to say to Jonathan. What does a girl who doesn't know who she is anymore say to her brother? A man who walks into a room and all the walls fall down with his music? How am I going to convey to him that I absolutely fucked-up? That I don't know what–

A loud clatter blasts me out of my thoughts, my seat, and skin all at once.

"Oh bloody hell, you scared me!" The deep, whispery English-accented voice is coming out of a bent-over guy on the altar picking up the candlestick he just knocked off. How did I not notice before he had an English accent? "Oh Christ! I can't believe I just said bloody hell in Church. And Christ, I just said Christ! Jesus!" He stands up, rests the candlestick on the table, then smiles the most crooked smile I've ever seen, like Picasso made it. "Guess I'm damned." I still can't speak, maybe he doesn't recognise me? There's a scar zigzagging across his left cheek and one running from the base of his nose into his lip. Did I have my eyes closed or something? "Well, doesn't matter," he continues in a stage whisper. "Always thought heaven would be crap anyway. All those preposterous puffy clouds. All that mind-numbing white. All those self-righteous, morally unambiguous goody two-shoes." The smile and accompanying crookedness hijack his whole face. It's an impatient, devil-may-care, chip-toothed smile on an off-kilter, asymmetrical face. He's totally wild-looking, hot, in a let's-break-the-law kind of way, not that I notice. How didn't I notice?

And where did he come from? England, it seems, but did he just teleport here mid-monologue?

"Sorry," he whispers, taking me in. I realise I'm still frozen with my hand plastered to my chest and my mouth open in surprise. And that's not even the worst of it given I probably look like a drowned rat. Red hair stark against my white, pasty skin, contrasting the sodden blackness of my clothes. I quickly rearrange myself. "Didn't mean to startle you," he says. "Didn't think anyone else was here. It was why I came here." To repent probably. He looks like he has sins, big juicy ones, fat ones too. I mean I guess we all do but his look even worse. He gestures at the door behind the altar. "I was just skulking about, taking photos." He pauses, tilts his head, studies me with curiosity. I notice a blue tattoo poking out of his collar. "You know, you really ought to put a lid on it. Such a chatterbox, a guy can't get a word in." Does he have amnesia or something, or am I just insignificant?

I feel a smile manoeuvring its way around my face that I resist as per the tenets of the boycott. He's charming, not that I notice that either. Charming is bad luck. I also don't notice that his sinful self seems smart, nor how tall he is, nor the way his finger-combed tangly golden hair falls over one eye, nor the black leather motorcycle jacket, perfectly worn in and ridiculously cool. He's carrying a beat-up messenger bag on one shoulder and it's like he is a new guy, like he had his own fog that has now drifted away from him and he can finally be him. And he has a camera around his neck that is now pointing at me.

"No," I shriek loud enough to blow the roof off and have it be blasted to smithereens as I duck behind the pew in front of me. I must look like a cold wet ferret. I don't want this guy having a picture of me looking like a cold wet ferret. And vanity aside: Every picture taken of you reduces your spirit and shortens your life.

"Hmm, yes," he whispers. "You're one of those, afraid the camera will steal your soul or some such." I eye him. Is he versed in some such? "In any case, please keep your voice down. We are in church after all." He grins in his chaotic way, then turns the camera up to the wooden ceilings, clicks. There's something else I'm not noticing: He seems familiar to me somehow, like we've met before and I'm not talking just today, but I don't know when or where.

I slip off my hat and start combing my fingers through my stubborn mat of neglected hair… like I'm not a girl with boy blinders! What am I thinking? I remind myself he's decaying like every other living thing. I remind myself I'm a drowned ferret who's completely and utterly artistically broken with no idea who she is or where she is going. I remind myself he's probably worse luck than all the world's black cats and broken mirrors combined. I remind myself some girls deserve to be alone after what they've done.

Before I can get my skullcap back on, he says in a regular speaking voice, quite a deep, velvety one, not that I notice, "Change your mind? Please do. I'm going to have to insist on it." He's aiming the camera at me again.

I shake my head to indicate I am in no way changing my mind. I put my hat back on, pull it down low, practically over my eyes, but then I bring my index finger to my lips in a shhh, which might appear to be flirting to the casual viewer, but luckily there are no casual viewers present. I can't seem to help it. And it's not like I'll ever see him again.

"Right, forgot where we were for a minute," he says, smiling and bringing his voice down to a whisper again. He regards me for a long, unnerving moment. It's like being held in a spotlight. Actually, I'm not sure it's legal to be looked at like this. My chest starts humming. "Too bad about the photo," he says. "Hope you don't mind me saying, but you look like an angel sitting there." He presses his lips together as if considering this. "But in disguise, like you just fell down and then borrowed some bloke's clothes."

What do I say to that? Especially now that the humming in my chest has turned into jackhammering.

"In any case, can't blame you for wanting out of the angelic order, Clary." He's grinning again and I'm spinning. So he does remember? "Probably quite a bit more interesting to be among us screwed-up mortals, like I said before." He sure has the gift of gab. I used to too, once, though you'd never know it. He must think my jaw's wired shut.

Oh boy. He's looking at me again in that way of his, like he's trying to see beneath the skin.

"Let me," he says, his hand circling the lens. It's more command than question. "Just one." There's something in his voice, in his gaze, in his whole being, something hungry and insistent, and it's untethering me. He doesn't look broken, not now, he looks whole, whole and alive. Alive and kicking. And I can tell even now that I would do anything to keep him looking like that, to keep him looking.

I'm nodding. I can't believe it, but I'm nodding. To hell with my vanity, my spirit, my old age. "Okay," I say, my voice hoarse and strange. "Just one." It's possible he's put me in a trance. It happens. There are people who are mesmerists. It's in the bible.

He lands in a squat behind a pew in the front row, spins the lens a few times while looking through the camera. "Oh God," he says. "Yes. Perfect. Fucking perfect."

I know he's taking a hundred pictures, but I don't care anymore. A hot series of shivers is running through me as he continues clicking and saying: Yes, thank you, this is totally bloody it, perfect, yes, yes, sodding hell, God, look at you. It's like we're kissing, way more than kissing. I can't imagine what my face must look like.

"You're her," he says finally, putting the cover over the lens. "I'm sure of it."

"Who?" I ask.

But he doesn't answer, just walks down the aisle toward me, a lazy, lanky walk that makes me think of summer. He's completely unwound now, went from high gear to no gear the moment he covered the lens. As he approaches, I see that he has one gold eye and one blue, like he's two people in one, two very intense people in one. Two people like me. The girl that is lost in her own head and the one that is almost normal.

"Well," he says when he's by my side. He pauses there as if he's going to say something more, like, I'm hoping what he meant by "You're her," but instead he just adds, "I'll leave you to it," and points up at God.

Looking at him from such close range, it strikes me now with certainty that it's not the first time I've laid eyes on this totally unbelievable guy.

Okay, I effing noticed. And no I do not just mean yesterday.

I think he's going to shake my hand or touch my shoulder or something, but he just continues down the aisle. I turn around and watch him stroll along, no, swagger along, like he should have a piece of hay in his mouth. He picks up a tripod I didn't notice when I came in and swings it over his shoulder. As he goes out the door, he doesn't turn around, but raises his free hand in the air and waves slightly like he knows I'm watching him.

Which I am. I still don't know his name. Fuck.

* * *

**AN: Still unsure.**

**Also reviews are really my motivation to write. So please review!**

**Hopefully I won't take as long to update next time.**

**Disclaimer 2.0: Also the last part of this chapter is based off a scene in Jandy Nelson's I'll Give You The Sun and, no, i unfortunately do not own that either.**


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